Page 17 of You Can't Hurt Me

There’s Nurofen, acetaminophen, earbuds and antihistamines. So far, so regular. On the shelf above is a black leather glasses case. I take it down, snap it gently open and inside, find a slim strip of pills with a printed label.

Dr. Nate Reid. Fentanyl. Prescribed in May 2019.

I’ve written stories about fentanyl, how dangerously addictive this synthetic opioid can be. What chronic pain could the King of Pain be suffering?

I rattle the blue discs in the blister pack and replace them, thinking about his behavior earlier, how it had flared up from nowhere. At the Rosen that morning he had seemed completely in charge, as if nothing could phase him. But his unpredictability today, an inability to self-regulate, suggests something else is going on. Vulnerable, fragile, someone struggling to cope.

In the end it is Jade who sees me to the door while Nate excuses himself to take his work call. She stands on the step and watches me as I leave.

I look back at the house, buttery in the afternoon sun, and toy with precisely the right adjectives to bring this to life in my profile. Usually, I savor these moments when the interview is over and I can take stock, reflect on how I’ll write it up, but now intrusive images flicker cine-style through my mind. The color rising on my cheeks, the clumsy way I’d almost tripped over my bag in my haste to get out of there. All the time I could feel his eyes in my back.

Worst of all, I wasn’t able to go deep about the publishing rumors, whether he’d drawn up a shortlist of ghostwriters. For all I know, thanks to the excruciating outburst that robbed the interview, he’s writing it on his own.

It starts to rain, a steady drizzle darkening the pavement. I take in the row of terraces opposite that stare back at me, their windows like lidless eyes. The sky is ashen, the real world is a shade grayer after Dr. Reid’s interiors. Time to go. I check my phone. A few work emails, a voicemail alert from Tony asking me what I’m up to and when is a good time to call, but then another notification flashes up:

Dr. Nate Reid is following you!

I click straight through to his X profile.

Nate Reid

@natereid100

Neuroscientist at the Rosen Institute,Sunday Timesbestselling author, host of BBC’sGrey Matters. Latest book:The Pain Matrix.

10 Following 480k Followers

Instinctively, I follow him straight back. Now, at least, I have his attention.

Eva’s Self-Reflection Journal

4 February 2019

I am writing in my studio this morning, staring out at ragged clouds chasing across a low gray sky and wondering where to begin. Janet told us yesterday that when someone trains as a therapist, it can leave their partner feeling insecure. Naturally you become more analytical about yourself and those around you. It’s easy for loved ones to feel scrutinized, dissected, wary of your new insights and perspectives.

Is that how Nate feels? We barely spoke last night over supper. There is so little we can discuss honestly anymore. It’s as if he’s on an island getting smaller and smaller as I sail away from him, until one day he’ll vanish on the horizon like a tiny speck.

Why is it the longer you live with someone, the more of a stranger they become? So many landmines. I watched him as he finished his meal, his knife scraping the plate, his jaw clenching as he chewed. Even the way he breathed began to enrage me.

My phone buzzing on the table made me jump. He glared at me when I took the call. Of course, I’d almost forgotten about the phone interview.

“Eva. Is now a good time?” she asked me. Nate’s eyebrows shot up and I left the table, walked over to the window.

“Hello,” I sparkled. Nate pushed back his chair, almost knocked it to the floor. These volatile displays are nothing new but they’re ramping up since I’ve started my training. “No, don’t worry. It’s perfect timing, really. Fire away.”

Cutlery clattered, cupboard doors rattled, he was registering his presence, making a point, a pass-agg habit of his. Meanwhile the journalist asked me all sorts of questions. Her curiosity was a balm. I demurred while she told me how much she loved my work, flirted with her to punish him for ignoring me. That’s how it started anyway.

As we talked, I slipped deeper into the conversation. I told her about my therapy course and, for the first time, I felt...engaged. I admitted I was nervous but also looking forward to seeing patients on my own, unsupervised for the first time. And I realized that I meant it. I’ve been so resistant to this course, to really opening up. But perhaps my inability to feel my patients’ pain will bring a sense of objectivity for them, help of a different kind.

I asked a little more about her, shared some advice about pursuing her passion for writing, even found myself offering her a free therapy session at my clinic. “Try it,” I suggested, catching Nate’s eye. “Keep in touch.”

“Who was that?” asked Nate, after the interview ended.

“Oh, no one,” I told him.

8

After leaving Algos House, I head to Shepherd’s Bush. Once on the subway, I check my WhatsApp to make sure the photo of Eva in the desert is there, which it is. Suspecting Nate would make me delete it, I’d sent the picture to myself as soon as I took it.

---